Genes Don't Lie
by IanaLy
Summary: The famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes is bored out of his wits by the sheer stupidity that surrounds him. When one day he and Molly are having college students visit their lab, things don't seem to be getting any better. But when viewing a body, one student stands out, with intellect and social skills that rival even those of Sherlock Holmes.
1. Introduction: Looks Can Deceive

**Introduction: Looks Can Deceive**

_"In this ever-changing world nothing is constant. Hearts can lie, humans are traitors and everything you know... is just a clever illusion."_

The soft sound of lapping water resonated through the night as the steel-gray ship docked. Immediately people began unloading all their cargo, making almost no noise. They were professionals, the best of the best, and this was possibly their most important task yet. Overlooking it all was a tall, muscularly built, bald man, wearing a pressed suit and tie. He had watched countless scenes like this and knew everybody's role, everybody's step and even about each breath they took. It was his job and he did it perfectly, holding his high position for nearly a decade. Yet something about this job was unnerving. It was gnawing on him from the inside, since he didn't know what their "_mystery cargo_" was. He knitted his brow and leaned forward on a rail.

"Sir, Titan wants to see you, in his office, now." his assistant said, midway up the stairs that separated him from below decks. She said it quietly, but the meaning was crystal clear. _Something's up. And it isn't good. _Sighing he pulled himself from the rail and climbed upward.

_**Titan**_ was a codename for his boss, the chief, the boss of bosses and the leader of this organization. One didn't exactly go to him for any reason and praise wasn't in his nature. The bald man could hear the anxious breathing of his bespectacled petite, strawberry-blond assistant. It wasn't helping him calm down. _Shit._

Titan's office was stationed behind a heavy steel door that would only open after a fingerprint scan and a retina scan. After that you had to type in a code and then verbally answer a security question. The man in the suit passed through the standard procedure and stepped inside, while his assistant waited outside, clutching her clipboard to her chest.

If the outside of the room looked strictly military, the inside was anything but so. It was a strange mixture of old and new. Hanging from the walls were famous paintings, the room had no windows, so the only source of light came from an ornate black crystal chandelier, and it smelled of wax. Red velvet armchairs were positioned across a circular deep brown rug. A dark mahogany table stood at the centre, with two glasses and a bottle of fine wine. Atop a raised platform the scene changed entirely. Seated behind a futuristic black desk equipped with multiple computers and screens, was Titan an enormous, over seven feet tall man, which made everyone feel like a mere insect in his presence. Suddenly he removed his eyes from the screen.

"Hallows," he greeted sternly with an eerie voice.

"Sir," the bald man replied as a lump formed in his throat.

The giant stood up, making Hallows gulp at the realization of his full height. Slowly he paced along the corridors. The bald man felt the tension build up every passing second. When Titan walked behind his back he wanted to turn heels and get the hell out of there, but kept his calm. He was after all a professional.

"Wine?" his superior asked menacingly. Hallows shook his head politely. He didn't drink while working.

"Very well, suit yourself." he brought the glass to his lips: "What do you know about our cargo?"

"Nothing." a completely blank, cold, emotionless answer resonated.

Titan grinned evilly: "Good. That's exactly how I want it." he sat back down behind the glossy black desk. "As you're well aware our client has asked us to deliver his cargo and has paid us quite a handsome sum of money for it. You know your part in this play, but no one else's..."

Hallows knew. _That's how we work. Do your job and let others do theirs. _The only person who knew the entire scheme was Titan. It was a security precaution, if anyone got caught. _Like that ever happens. _Still he felt a strange tension. _Here comes the catch._

"Our employer, " he continued: "... has recently alerted me to a possible threat to his plans." A photo appeared on one of the screens: "This particular person could jeopardize the entire mission, I need you to neutralize him. A few seconds of silence passed as Hallows let the information sink in. Assassination, yes. That was his main field of expertise. Titan leaned closer to him.

"Do not take this threat too lightly..." he was saying: "... This person used to work for us, he's a master of disguise. I've seen him do it myself, he can fade into the crowd in a second, acclaim an entirely different persona in a minute, be halfway across the world in an hour with a watertight alibi for three weeks. I cannot stress this enough. Looks can deceive. Don't be focused too tightly on this image." he pointed to the screen.

_Holly shit,_ Hallows thought. He was supposed to trace somebody who was practically invisible and smart enough to evade Titan.

"If I may ask, if he was so good, why was he discharged?" he asked, fearing he already knew the answer.

"He wasn't." Titan slammed his fists loudly: "He dot away during one of his assignments, whilst under maximum security and under my watch, I haven't been able to trace him since!" he was furious now. The bald man stared blankly at the image. One just doesn't evade Titan, it's impossible. He scanned the picture intently; a young white male with dark, curly, shoulder-length hair, pale thin lips and an overwhelming protruding gaze in his pale gray eyes. He sighed inwardly, watching both Titan and the dark haired man.

_**Looks can deceive.**__ The Game is on._

**Author's Note: **Yay! I got the introduction done. In my mind this fic is reaching whole new dimensions of what it was supposed to be. Anyone want chapter 1? I bet you can't guess who the dark curly head is.


	2. Chapter 1: Bad Mornings

**Chapter 1: Bad Mornings**

John Watson hated the sound of alarm clocks in the morning. He groggily slumped out of bed and went to make some coffee. He hadn't slept properly in about, what was it? Two weeks? Yes, that was it. He hadn't slept properly for the past two weeks, but that was the toll he had to pay, living with the world's only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. John couldn't fathom why he agreed to this. The man was rude, his social skills sucked, his morals were twisted, thinking he was oh so smart and to top it all he conducted bizarre experiments, the latest of which had caused so much noise for the past two weeks, that half the neighborhood came to complain.

John dragged himself to the bathroom, only to realize there was a puddle forming through the door. God, he hated mornings. _What has he done this time?_ He barged through the door, thankful that it wasn't locked.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John shouted. He was standing almost knee-deep in water. Sherlock was treading across the water, stark naked.

"Bloody hell, you could at least have some courtesy to wear a sheet!" angrily the shorter man threw a towel in his direction. "And why for god's sake are you flooding the bathroom!" Life with Sherlock Holmes was never dull.

"I'm conducting an experiment, don't disturb me!" he shook his head violently. "And besides, I only wear as much as a sheet, if I go to Buckingham Palace." he squinted closer. "You're irritable today, did you break up with your girlfriend?"

"I..." John stuttered. He heard a frog croak and looked into the water. There were frogs in it! And crabs! And starfish! "That's it. I'm getting ready at Mrs. Hudson's." He grabbed his toothbrush and shaving kit and whooshed through the door.

"Peculiar..." Sherlock remarked as a tortoise bit him.

Jeanine pulled up her skinny jeans and jumped a few times so she could button them up properly. She did a front walkover in the middle of her flat, pleased at her flexibility and then blew her sandy-brown locks out of her eyes. Her green eyes, just like her last name Green, were her most magnificent feature. She pulled her unruly mop of hair into a messy ponytail, took her bag and lab coat. She was studying forensics and today was her first day of practice. Somewhere a car horn beeped and she knew it was her ride waiting for her.

Molly Hooper had spent the past minute observing Sherlock pull all of his hair out and trying not to laugh. It all started when she told him students from University would be here today on practice. The end result was basically a nerve-wrecked Sherlock. He didn't like socializing or as he put it: "The amount of idiocy in one building will be enough to make Anderson weep like a girl, not that he normally does anything else."

DI Greg Lestrade also came knocking: "Can I borrow Sherlock for a case?" he asked Molly.

"I'm afraid not, Sherlock and I are busy, we're having students today." she smiled.

"Please, save me." Sherlock made a puppy dog face. Greg squinted.

"Sorry, I can't. Have fun." he waved to Molly

"Bring me a body." Sherlock said after a few moments of despair. "If we're doing this, we're doing it my way."

Being in he same room with all her fellow college students made Jeanine Green realize how much she hated them all. They were either doing drugs or smoking, geeks with bulletproof glasses that only talked about math or just plain annoying. She didn't mind the geeks, but had to admit they got boring after time. People considered her a geek, but there was a difference; she was just smart. She smelled something burning and turned around to see two students; one a blue haired junkie with piercings, who was smoking weed and the other a hot, black head, who had been nice to her in the past, but was now a plain idiot.

"Sure you don't want to try one?" the smoker asked in a raspy voice.

Jeanine snarled: "If i would, I'd make sure not to buy it from the same guy as you do." The evidence was obvious, written all over his clothes, smell and hair.

"At leas I won't have to dye my hair to hide the fact that they're graying." she leaned and whispered in his ear: "Heavy metal poisoning."

The junkie backed away from her with a look of fear and bewilderment in his eyes

"What do you know about downtown London?!" he spat at her.

"I know London better than you'd imagine." they stared at each other.

"Now, now, come on you two. There's no need to anger the lovely Miss Green." the black haired youth intervened, acting almost smitten. The girl looked at him. Boy, was he intoxicating, for a complete ass, that is. She looked at his clothes, his hands, hair and eyes and the answer was dully simple.

"Just because you and your platinum blonde girlfriend had a row, broke a tea set and then she said something with the meaning 'I'm never coming back' doesn't mean I'll go out with you." there, that should keep him in line: "My dear Andrew."

Andrew looked at her with disgust. God, was she beautiful, but she wasn't stupid and he was never going to get her. Too smart for games. He longed that he could kiss those smooth, pale lips and play with her messy long hair. He signaled to the junkie that it was time to leave.

Sherlock eyed the bunch of students in the lab and nearly gagged. What a terribly dull boring lot they were! He could decipher each of them in a minute. This was going to be a long day. He stopped at a curly black haired male student who wore the nameplate Andrew. Yes, there was more to him than met the eye. He straightened up and tensed.

"Right..." the consulting detective announced. "Each of you will come in here separately and examine," he gestured to the body of a middle-aged woman: "the body of poor Louise here. We'll go alphabetically."

"Sherlock," Molly interrupted. "This is practice, not an exam."

"Well they better learn fast."

Sherlock was a man who prided himself by making decisions that would at least be amusing - well, the outcome anyway - to him. However this time, he had to admit he had failed, miserably. These students were the pinnacle of stupidity. Each one was a highly calculated failure. One wasn't imaginative enough to match the clay beneath Louise's fingernails to her love of making pottery. Boring. One could name every chemical compound found on the body, but didn't have the intelligence to see the scratches on her forearms came from an animal smaller than a dog. Dull. One completely ignored all the signs of arsenic poisoning. Idiot. The consulting detective thought he was hallucinating, when the list of potential dimwits wasn't getting any shorter. His brain was rotting and it was making him dizzy. _Just one more_ he told himself.

All the students were hurdling outside the lab, expressing their complaints loudly.

"The man's an ass." a woman said in clear Irish accent.

"Not an ass, a bloody psychopath. He's just like that Green girl." he twisted his head. "I swear, they can read all your secrets just by looking at you." It was Andrew.

Jeanine rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. it was hardly her fault the others were incompetent as such. She felt alone and betrayed, that Andrew of all people stabbed her in the back. Of course she predicted that the calculated probability of it was high, still it hurt.

"Next!" Sherlock bellowed through the door. He stared blankly at the list. Jeanine Green. He frantically searched his 'mind palace' to remember who she was. Nothing. He was certain she wasn't the one with the funky hair, or the morbidly obese one, neither the one with a bad case of asthma. It was a surprise when the tall, athletic woman with clear green eyes appeared. When she tilted her head, her pony tail of unruly hair flew about, giving her an appearance of care freeness and sorrowful intelligence. Mr. Holmes found himself blinking, how could he have not noticed her before. Her looks and overall influence gave away an organised outlook, suffused with wisdom beyond her age. He found it odd, he couldn't tell anything about her, not even her laterality. To contradict with other students, who were jippy and nervous, she stood there still, calm and confident.

When Jeanine stepped in and smelt the familiar scent of death and disinfectant, she felt right at home. The freaky detective was studying her with interest. _Not so fast,_ she thought. She had made it both a science and an art to hide her true self from the world. _A mask to surprise_. The women next to him, Molly Hooper, if her memory didn't fail her, cleared her throat.

"All right... um... what we, well mainly Sherlock," she stumbled nervously; apparently she wasn't the outgoing type but Jeanine liked her. It was just a gut feeling and she knew it was best to trust it at moments like this.

"We ant you to examine the body there, just a quick look, maximum ten minutes, no microscopes or chemical analysis and tell us what you see." Molly finished.

Jeanine lost no time and within a second fell completely into her work. She tilted the head of the poor deceased woman, checked behind her fingernails, in her hair, the soles of her feet...

Molly and Sherlock watched intently as she surveyed the body. She appeared to be completely unfazed by it, the way she calmly put on her latex gloves and did what she apparently

did best. Sherlock watched her with approval. She clearly knew where to check for information. After three minutes she turned to them.

"White female in her mid forties works as a teacher based on the roundness of her knees, makes pottery in spare time, is single and has had many unsuccessful relationships. Cause of death is a brain hemorrhage, possibly from arsenic poisoning, though not very likely. Is, pardon was, the owner of three cats; one Siamese, the other two Bombay", Jeanine paused for effect.

Sherlock snorted: "All three cats are Burmese, you were close, very close. What a shame." he snickered.

Jeanine shook her head. She walked from behind the autopsy table: "No, that would be a common mistake," she told him. "But take a closer look at the angles and edges of these scratches. Burmese cats would leave clear scratches, while these have very uneven edges. And the differences in the angle between the third and fourth claw indicate that one of those cats is Siamese."

Sherlock stared at her dumbstruck. To stop his gawking he shook his head slightly and looked her directly in the eye: "Pray, hoe do you know so much about cat scratches?"

"Consult the encyclopedia" Jeanine smiled and rolled up her sleeves. An array of scratches of all dimensions and directions appeared, ranging from her palms the edge of her elbows. She was guilty of feeding stray cats and getting attacked by them on occasion. Molly gave a light chuckle and looked expectantly at the detective who said nothing, but stared wide-eyed. It was disgusting, revolting and unacceptable that **she** corrected **him**. That had never happened to him an the only person who could do that was Mycroft. Being wrong made him feel normal and it was wrong. _This can't be._

Jeanine folded her arms, tilted her head and raised one eyebrow in a comic manner. The corners of her lips turned up and her eyes spoke one thing. _I told you so._ After that she took off her gloves, turned on her heels, and threw them in the bin on her way out.

**Author's Note:** Hope you like Jeanine! Sorry if anyone's OoC. Not sure if the part about the cats or anything else is true, it jus sounded cool. I'm really slow at writing so this might take a while to publish. I'll try to upload the next chapter within a week from the previous one. This was fun to write. I'm so busy. School.


	3. Chapter 2: Assassinational Instincts?

**Chapter 2: Assassinational Instincts?**

"So what. So she corrected you, it doesn't matter!" John pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation and sighed. Sherlock was sulking in his armchair, refusing to do anything. He was still upset over his showdown with Jeanine. Honestly, sometimes the man could be such a pain.

"You don't understand, you never have. This is my life! I can't have just any little girl with big round eyes come in and take it away from me. That doesn't go, but I don' expect you to understand it." The detective kicked furiously out of his chair, stepped over the coffee table, again, and proceeded to lie down on the floor.

"Can't you just accept that there are people just as good or even better than you?" he turned away and grabbed his jacket: "I'm going to the shops. I'm so done with you. Live with it!"

"No!" the detective shouted and tensed. He brought his knees to his chest and curled into a ball.

London is a city with two faces. It grows and prospers, but at the same time its' dark alleys, hidden from most, spiral into even deeper abyss. Even the most innocent of streets can suddenly turn dangerous.

Going up the stairs in a four-storey abandoned building, a shadow clambered. It wasn't afraid of being seen, since nobody looked there. The windows on the top floor overlooked one of the busiest streets in London. _Perfect._ An overflow of targets would provide the perfect coverage. The shadow smiled. It would be child's play. The shadow kneeled down, opened a box and assembled the gun. It was heavily rigged. the figure carefully lifted the last piece out of the black box. It had arrived just a few days prior, hidden in a shipment of cotton T-shirts. So far, _They_ were pleased with it. _They. The High Council. They_ had eyes everywhere and ears all around the globe. Half of the world was under Their power as their beginnings reached back to Hitler himself. The shadow adjusted this fragile piece to the barrel of the gun and aimed gently through the window, at the crossroads.

Jeanine hurried through the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Not that she didn't like London; it was just too overcrowded at moments. Traffic jams were almost a regular appearance and homeless people were only increasing in number. Jeanine felt like a helpless bird in a cage in a convoy. She could swear the crowd was squeezing the life out of her. It was almost comic, how fat ladies sent her flying through the air with their big bottoms. When she finally came to the crossroad she felt relieved. She was walking along the street. Suddenly her instincts told her she'd better turn, run and prepare to fight. _Survival instincts._ She took a few deep breaths. _I'm not doing this anymore. I've left that part of me in the past._ She hated the fact that she still reacted like this to the slightest of things.

She stopped dead in her tracks and listened. In the same second a pair of strong arms grabbed her from behind and held a cold blade to her neck. Jeanine twisted and was almost free from her attacker as the knife made a cut along her throat, but she took no notice. _I was trained for this._ Then she felt something sharp, like a needle pierce her neck. It took but a moment to realize she had been drugged. Her body fell limp and heavy and her mind was becoming hazy. With a loud thud she dropped to the ground.

The assailant with the knife looked upward towards the abandoned building. That's where the shot came from. Apparently the content of the shot was a strong sedative drug. For a second he looked quietly at the young lady on the ground in front of him. Already a crowd was beginning to form around her. _Best take my retreat, _he thought and disappeared out of sight.

The shooter drew its' gun back and looked at its' target, now laying motionless. The shadow wasn't certain if it had saved the girls' life. Somehow it had reacted on instinct, when it saw the girl. Who was the attacker, who had grabbed her and tried to slit her throat clean on the street? It was of no importance now. With packed boxes and a confused mind, the shadow fled.

"I need a case, now!" Sherlock demanded loudly. In front of him, on the table, lay an assortment of powdered vegetables out of which he was trying to make a whiteboard marker.

John shifted on the couch and made a mental note to buy some earplugs: "Then go to Greg Lestrade and ask him." he replied and sighed as Sherlocks' phone beeped. He got a text and there weren't many people who sent him any. _Speak of the Devil._

DI Greg Lestrade was swearing aloud at the time it took to get an ambulance in London. He had no idea what exactly had happened, but he had an unconscious young woman with a cut throat, a puncture wound in her neck and no witnesses. The good thing was she's alive. He was trying to keep the crime scene minimal, with only him and Molly there. Where was the damn ambulance?

"I think she's going to be okay," Molly said to him as she shifted from one knee to the other. She had cleaned the victims' wounds: "The cuts weren't as deep as we first thought." The man nodded tiredly. Both turned their heads towards a sudden loud noise and instantly knew what it meant.

Sherlock had arrived and so had John. Lestrade walked towards the two.

"So, where's the unfortunate person?" the self-proclaimed genius asked.

"Over there, " the DI motioned to his right: "Next to Molly."

Sherlock strode across the few meters excitedly. Finally, something to do. It was as if someone had set of an adrenaline bomb in his system and it was developing into a sort of hyper activeness. He leaned over the unconscious person, expecting to know all the 'ifs', 'buts', 'where's', 'whens' and 'whys' in a second. People, after all, were so trivial. When he saw who it was he stopped dead in his tracks and stared. His face lost all color and became as pale as chalk. _No, no,_ he kept repeating in his mind._ This is impossible. Twice in the same day. This isn't happening._

For years he had thought, he was unrivaled, but now his very foundations were shaken. His hands started trembling, so he squeezed them into fists, to not let it show.

John was quickly next to him. For a moment he looked worriedly at his friend who was acting as if ha had just found out his other died, but it was only looking at the young woman's slight frame that did him in. John had no idea who she was, but she was very pretty.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to speak: "It's her." he whispered barely audibly and turned his face to John: "Jeanine Green."

The shorter man stared wide-eyed: "The one who gave you a run for your money earlier today in the lab?" John didn't know what to expect. he thought Jeanine Green was a socially-isolated woman who had nothing to do, but instead she was a beautiful girl in her 20s.

"Yes," he shifted uncomfortably.

DI Lestrade pulled them away as the ambulance arrived. Finally. _It was about time._ He turned towards the smartest one, who was looking unusually pale, but he ignored it.

"What did you find out about her?" he asked

Again, Sherlock was assailed by that uncomfortable feeling of not knowing anything about a person by just looking at them. For most it was normal, for him not so much.

He regained his composure and cleared his throat: Her name is Jeanine Green. She's studying forensics and was one of the students me and Molly had today. She's exceptionally bright and clever and is a cat lover."

"Molly told me as much..." Lestrade was about to continue, when one of the paramedics came to him.

"The girl's fine. Nothing broken or sprained, she doesn't need any stitches and her tox-screen is clean. I'd still suggest she stay in a hospital overnight or with someone who can keep an eye on her until she wakes up." she said professionally.

"Thank you," he replied: "I think it's best she stay in a hos-"

"She should stay with me and John at Baker Street." Sherlock cut him off.

"What? Oh, for the love of God, please try to act rationally. What the hell's name is going on in your mind?" Lestrade spat out.

"Don't question my methods. I've solved all of your cases, remember." Sherlock said slyly as they moved around police cars and under the yellow tape that, almost stereotypically, marked a crime scene.

Jeanine opened her eyes slowly and blinked repeatedly to clear her foggy mind. She had never understood how some people, after being knocked out, didn't remember what happened to them for a few minutes. To her, everything came clearly and in full detail. She realized she was lying on something soft and it wasn't a hospital bed. Something made out of leather. She was lying on a vintage dark couch. Looking around herself she detected she was in someone's apartment. The furnishing was old fashioned, but it was selected with taste and reflected an aura of class, careful and precise. What was that? She could swear she saw bullet holes in the tapestry wall. A sound of steady typing on a keyboard filled the otherwise quiet room and Jeanine caught on that someone was sitting next to her on the edge of the couch. She looked first to the typer. It was Sherlock Holmes. Not the person she wanted to see right now. Her head was swirling and her neck felt sore. She tried to get up.

"Look who's awake," a short, blonde man remarked when he saw her: "Hey, hey, take it easy. Lie back down.

Jeanine ignored his instructions and sat up all the way, rubbing her sore, bandaged neck: "Who are you? Where am I? Is this Baker Street?" she croaked more than spoke.

"My name is John Watson and I share this flat with Sherlock, whom I know you've already met. And yes, this is Baker Street. How'd you know that?" he asked.

"It wasn't hard," she turned to him: "I just looked around. Everything becomes pretty obvious, if you know where to look."

"So Sherlock wasn't joking when he said you were super clever." he whispered: "Maybe even more than he is."

"I heard that." the consulting detective interjected.

Jeanine giggled: "I highly doubt he'll ever live me correcting him down."

"I'll have you know, I've solved over 500 cases, which were far more complex than you imagine!" Sherlock tried to clear his name. It was positively humiliating.

"Wow. Living with a high-functioning sociopath must be hard, I feel sorry for you Mr. Watson."

Jeanine looked at John sympathetically. John couldn't tell why, but he already liked her. They gazed at each other with understanding. It felt as if they had been allies in the fight against Sherlock's massive ego for a long time. She was just what he needed. Someone who could match Sherlock in intellect, but outdid him in socializing._ This was going to be interesting._

**Author's Note:** Stay tuned for more Jeanine slash Sherlock action. Always happy to hear people's suggestions, so please, review. See you in chapter 3!


	4. Chapter 3: Interrogations Are Fun

**Chapter 3: Interrogations Are Fun**

The tap was opened and water began to fill the spacious bathtub. A fistful of lavender and chamomile bath salt was thrown into the warm water as well as some foamy liquid. An exhausted young lady with deep green eyes looked at her reflection in the mirror and nearly jumped back in terror at the sight of the appalling monster that looked back at her. Jeanine groaned as she made an extreme effort in examining he dark circles under her eyes. Brilliant. Her beauty and wit were her greatest gifts and looking like a swamp monster didn't help the former. She saw, or at least imagined she saw, some wrinkles beginning to take shape on her forehead. They wouldn't do. At her age of 23 having wrinkles was unacceptable and a crisis that had to be averted. Jeanine quickly slapped some face cream on her face, got undressed and slipped into the hot, fragrant bath. She closed her eyes and felt her muscles relaxing. Some foam threatened to enter her nose and she blew it playfully away.

The next thing she heard was an invasive beep. Her phone. A text. Jeanine opened one eye and groaned._ Not now, please._ Her manicured fingers reached across the smooth porcelain shelf, occasionally hitting a glass object, but finally reaching her phone. She read the text and let her head fall back as she puffed loudly. She wanted to weep and bang her head repeatedly against the wall.

_Meet me at Baker St. 221B in exactly_

_one hour. Formal interrogation for police investigation._

_- SH-_

SH? Must stand for Sherlock Holmes. Of all the people the muck of London had to offer, she really didn't want to talk to that pompous prick again. She grabbed her phone and typed a reply. She pressed the 'send' button with a look of triumph on her face. There, it was done. She let herself slide into the bath once more.

_In one hour? With all due respect, if you want _

_to talk to me, you'll comply with my terms. See_

_you in two hours, Mr. Holmes. Who gave you my number?_

_-Jeanine Green-_

Sherlock looked at his phone with scorn. Something about this girl he barely knew was bothering him. She was pretty, smart, witty, sarcastic and in his humble opinion, a spoiled girly-girl. He threw his phone against the wall, making a dent and sending the cover and battery flying. How dare he be defiled? By some miracle Mrs. Hudson happened to shuffle by.

"I'm putting this on your rent, young man." she said.

Mrs. Hudson led Jeanine upstairs, towards Sherlock's apartment. Jeanine was beginning to like her, since she loved old people in general, with their constant chatter, sensitivity to little things, cleanness and smell of homemade soap and old age. Mrs. Hudson was just babbling to her about some ghastly ordeal she had with a bloke across the street, who was, as she put it, ruining her pot flowers accidentally on purpose.

"There we are Miss ..." Mrs. Hudson said leading to the door.

"Green. Although you can just call me Jeanine.," she replied by reflex. It was a preference of hers, to have people call her by her first name. It made her feel safer.

"Right, Jeanine. So, Sherlock and John should be home."

"Thank you very much." Jeanine said as Mrs. Hudson left her. She took a deep breath and rang the doorbell, waiting for someone to coma and answer.

Mr. Watson answered the door: "Oh, hello there," he turned and yelled over his shoulder: "Sherlock, you have a visitor. Drop whatever the hell you're doing and get over here! Now!" he turned back to Jeanine who had raised her eyebrows quizzically. John gave an apologetic smile: "Sorry about that."

"Life's never boring for you, is it?" she gave him an understanding nod as she entered through the wooden door. Inside the apartment, everything was just as she remembered it. The same classy atmosphere, the same bizarre smell of leather, wood, anti-tobacco candles and a few other, largely disgusting things she'd rather not imagine.

"Is your neck okay?" John asked her tenderly, apparently noticing she was wearing a pullover of green color with a high neckline.

"It's fine," Jeanine replied. She wasn't really bothered with it.

"May I take a look?" he asked: "Don't worry, I'm a doctor," he added after seeing Jeanine's puzzled expression. She nodded and giving it a quick look, he saw the cut was healing nicely and really, really fast. She must be a quick healer, he reasoned.

"You're late. We were arranged to meet an hour ago," a vaguely familiar voice put, annoyed.

"Didn't you get my text?" the girl asked with a mocking raise of eyebrows. From the corner of the eye she spied a wrecked phone. _Apparently he had. _"I've come exactly when I said I would."

"Well I gave you your appointment an hour ago. Right now I have no obligation to you, so you might as well leave." the owner of the stubborn voice got out of the chair and paced about the room.

"Why? Is the famous Sherlock Holmes not accustomed to making compromises? And besides, I'm here because of **your** inquiry and **your** investigation. Believe me it'd suit me better if I were to go home now." she taunted and folded her arms. Sherlock stopped his pacing and stood in front of her, an inch from her face, towering above her. She could already smell his breath. Boy, did he need a breath mint.

"This is going to get ugly." John remarked, but no one paid him any attention.

Pale blue stared into green with such scowls upon their faces that it would have been funny, if it weren't so grave. The more Jeanine stared, the more she began softening. She couldn't place it, but behind the wall of weirdness and irony, she saw beauty, sweetness, compassion. Sherlock didn't know why, but each moment he spent with this particular lady was one of the best in his life. The fact that she could put him in his place in a heartbeat made him gain some respect for her and she was also kind, appropriate and seemed to be in control of everything. The surrounding silence was becoming awkward.

"Right now," Sherlock pulled himself away: "On with the interrogation." he strode to his desk and, sat down and looked at the blank form in front of him.

"First and middle and last name?" he asked.

"Jeanine Elizabeth Alonso Green."

He noted it all down: "Date of birth?"

"You hardly as a lady that." she puffed.

"I have to fill in a form." He didn't want to, of course. But it was Molly and Lestrade's way of keeping him from tormenting witnesses too much during his exploration and hunt for facts. Reluctantly she gave him an answer.

"Place of birth and citizenship?" he asked next.

"Florence, Italy and British." she loved her hometown. None could rival its' beauty, art and architecture. It was truly one of a kind. If only she'd been able to stay there longer.

Sherlock put his pen down. Now came the fun part: "Try to tell me what exactly happened when you were attacked."

"I went to a ramen house and had lunch after morning practice with you and Miss Hooper. Then I was just walking down the street, minding my own business when some cutthroat grabbed me from behind and tried to do what he did best." she said calmly

"Anything else? Is that all?"

"Yes." Jeanine put simply. She kept the part about the narcotic shot to herself. It was better that way. There wasn't any need for a nosy detective to know everything.

Holmes scrutinized her for any sings of lying. Jeanine didn't budge. She had mastered that art long ago: "Very well, tell me about the attacker?" he asked.

She had already made a mental profile of the assailant, based off of things she noticed, like the density of his arm muscles, the way he held his knife; which she believed could tell you a lot about a person, his smell... "Middle aged Latino male. He was aiming for a quick robbery, not to much avail." she clicked her tongue: Too many people were around. He thought he was skilled enough to pull it of. Smelled of a mix of many drugs, tobacco and alcohol, so I'm guessing he works for some street gang of yahoos. Is left handed, works out regularly, his work is more of a physical nature. Is used to possessing all kinds of weapons, an ex-champion wrestler, has a tattoo in his left shoulder, wears his hair in a ponytail, takes infinite care of his bushy black moustache and shaves his beard." she paused in case she forgot anything.

Sherlock couldn't help being impressed. She had narrowed his search field down substantially. He was really pleased and at the same time, weirded out, since he wasn't used to other people making such deductions.

"Any other questions?"

"Are you free Saturday?" Sherlock asked without thinking and nearly gobbled himself up a second afterwards. _This isn't good. She's going to make fun of me now, adding to my current ridicule. I'll never hear the end of this. _He felt like a teenager again. Not a good feeling.

"It's Tuesday today. Saturday seems like such a long time away. And yes, I am."

**Author's Note:** This is more of a flimsy horrible chapter. I don't know why I even wrote it. It's shorter than I intended. It's just plain horrible. I'm so ashamed. Chapter 4 will be better. I promise.


	5. Chapter 4: Origami and Dancing

**Chapter 4: Origami and Dancing**

John was becoming increasingly worried about Sherlock. Since he woke up, the man had done nothing but stare out the window solemnly and play slow, sorrowful melodies on the violin. There was a reason John was worries and how couldn't he be? The anniversary. It was one year ago that Sherlock lost her. Irene Adler, or as he called her later, The Woman, the one and only. She toyed with his heart. John was afraid to leave him alone. God knew what Sherlock was capable of in his current state. Just his luck. Today he was arranged to meet someone. It was not strictly a date, just a meeting between friends, but he hoped t would develop into something more and he really didn't want to screw up this time. Blast the cursed date. Sherlock looked out the window and stared at the gray clouds pouring rain. He thought he could see each drop form. As John exited the room, he took his bow off the strings and let both it and the violin fall to his sides. What bothered him was not that he missed Irene, but that it hurt less than he expected, less than he thought it should. Could it be that he was getting over her? _What's wrong with me?_

Jeanine looked like a child, with her face pressed flat against the glass. On the other side was a big chocolate cake with rainbow frosting and sugar sprinkles, decorated with marzipan flowers and roasted nuts. She could eat it all up. On occasions like this she was grateful for her metabolism, for she could eat as much as she liked and she wouldn't gain weight. It might also be attributed to the fact that she moved a lot and was almost never still. Somehow she managed to pull herself away from the chocolate goodness, but she still longed for it. She quickly turned away and consulted her shopping list.

John was checking the expiration date of some milk when he saw her. It was Miss Green, with her nose in several types of spaghetti at once. He got a crazy idea. Maybe, just maybe, she could watch over Sherlock, when he went on his 'date' with Sally, his maybe girlfriend. No, no, it was way to ridiculous and to top it off, weird. He just met her a couple of days ago and asking something like that would be rude and impolite. Still, he'll never know if he doesn't ask. She might say yes. _Here goes nothing._

"Hi there." he remarked casually and stopped in front of her.

"Hello there, Dr. Watson." Jeanine replies nonchalantly. She knew this conversation of theirs would continue and quite frankly, didn't understand the British fascination with polite chitchats.

He shook his head: "Please just call me John," he paused to think. He wasn't entirely sure how he should phrase his question. "I have a favor to ask. I know it's short notice, but today is a really bad day for Sherlock and I wouldn't like leaving him alone in the afternoon. You've met him, you know what he's like." he blurted out.

"Why is this day so bad for him?" she asked not getting the entire picture.

"It's the anniversary of when his first and only girlfriend left him. It also happens that I've got, what you may call a sort of date today and I..." he didn't know how to finish, he was nervous.

Jeanine imagined a depressed high-functioning sociopath. It wasn't pretty. She could understand his troubles, sympathetically. It's not like she had plans anyway. She chuckled lightly: "Of course I can come, don' worry."

She said yes, didn't she? She accepted. "Really? Oh, thank you, you're a lifesaver. I have to go now, before Sherlock causes any more damage than he already has in my absence. Goodbye!" he turned away, chiming and beaming all the way.

"Bye." Jeanine laughed. Funny, how you could make someone's day instantly better. She turned back the way she came. _She was going to need that cake._

Jeanine rang the polished doorbell, cake in hand. Mrs. Hudson escorted her inside. She sure was bubbly for her age. When Jeanine entered the apartment, she heard a wonderful melody. Someone was playing the violin. It was Sherlock. He was standing, facing the window. When she had entered, he briefly stopped playing and cocked his head towards her. She was expecting some kind of remark to fall from his lips, but the violin player only sighed and continued playing. He was acting strange.

Jeanine coughed: "I've brought cake. Where can I put it?" she asked.

"Let me help you with that." John offered, removing himself from his computer and taking the rather heavy cake from her. He placed it on the kitchen table and started making coffee.

"Coffee?" he asked her.

"Yes, please," she then added: "I drink mine black."

"Just like I do." John smiled; happy he wasn't the only person he knew who did that.

Jeanine meanwhile took a stroll to his computer and gazed at the screen. It wasn't really a nice thing to do, but she was really snoopy. "What's this?" she asked curiously.

"Nothing. That's just my blog." John gave her a cup of coffee. She took a long slurp: "Is this about me?"

"I'd rather you don't read that. The last time a greatly intelligent person read my blog they weren't exactly pleased with my portrayal of them." he added looking sheepish after a huh when Jeanine raised one eyebrow questioningly.

"What's the time? All right, I'm off," John was halfway out the door while putting his jacket on: "The keys are on the table, if you're hungry there's food in the fridge. **He**..." he said pointing to Sherlock: "... doesn't have a bed time." Jeanine chuckled. She basically was babysitting Sherlock; he acted like a child having tantrums, anyway. John closed the door behind him.

As soon as he left an empty silence filled the room, even though Sherlock hadn't stopped playing. The melody, although beautiful, sounded somewhat hollow to Jeanine. She sat on the edge if the couch, palms clasped around the cup of coffee, and listened to the tune respectfully. Somewhere in the middle it turned extremely sorrowful, reminding her at all she had lost and all the guilt she had to bear on her pale and exposed chest and her heart now left bare. Sherlock's playing came to a climax and then with a great ritenuto, it stopped. Jeanine clapped admiringly. He turned round, startled at first, but then placed the violin to his side, the bow across his chest and bowed.

"You're very good," she stood up: "Where did you learn to play like that?"

"Don't know. I just picked up little pieces here and there. I'm not particularly good though. For me playing is just a method offering a way to drown out unnecessary distractions, sometimes from the outside and sometimes, sometimes from the inside." Jeanine contemplated he was being unusually modest and somewhat agitated, distraught with ever changing moods. She wasn't good at this. She had no idea how to make someone cheer up. Somehow the words got caught up in her throat and even though she new what to say, she just couldn't. In a flash she saw her childhood. An unhappy childhood that had left her in some ways handicapped and scarred for life. Thinking of it made her pull her knees up to her chest.

"I think you're amazing," she tried, putting the memories and the tension away.

Sherlock turned, baffled. He surely wasn't accustomed to praise: "Thank you. Do you play an instrument?"

"No," she responded to his inquiry: "I've never thought I could produce any form of beauty," she turned away shaking her head: "And besides, I've never tried to actually dedicate myself to something," she added in attempt to lighten the mood. She propelled herself off the couch and proceeded to cut herself a giant slice of cake.

"Do you want some?" she asked the consulting detective who shook his head. She started munching loudly at the chocolate heaven in front of her.

"You know you're going to get fat if you eat so much cake. And it can't be counted as healthy either." Sherlock tormented her.

_Woo hoo,_ Jeanine thought to herself. _His ego's back. Guess who isn't acting estranged and isolated anymore?_

"But it's good," she protested.

"That still doesn't make it healthy," the game was on.

She snorted: "I know that. There's a saying that goes 'anything that's good is either unhealthy, isn't moral or makes you fat." she clarified. He smiled. His spirits had certainly lifted.

"You don't say," he pondered, clasping his hands together and placing them underneath his chin.

He was staring at her intently. That didn't seem to bother her. Jeanine was used to staring contests. They were stupid, really. A thing only amateurs did. Meanwhile she took her serviette and with a few practiced creases and folds made a perfect origami moth. She threw it at his face, like a paper airplane. He caught it expertly between his index and middle finger. One of the many talents he was obviously proud of was his ability of catching small, fast flying objects at close range. He examined the little moth, took a chair, leaned menacingly towards Jeanine (who, naturally didn't budge) slammed his palm on the table and took a napkin. He made a crane. _How typical._ Jeanine puffed

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked, feeling that they had he same idea.

"Bring. It. On." he put special emphasis on every word.

In a flash both of them jumped from heir chairs and grabbed any piece of paper they could find. In a minute the girl already made a flapping bird and made it flap as close to his ear as possible without getting swatted by his arm. She placed it in his hair and laughed as he tried to shake it of, acting childish.

"That's cheating," he complained.

"We never agreed on any rules."

A few minutes later, Jeanine deeply regretted what she had said, for Sherlock somehow made an origami cannon and it was firing mini origami cannonballs straight her way. Showoff.

"Look! I've made flowers," she pointed towards an origami vase, holding origami lilies, roses and other flowers.

"I have a zoo," he pitched in. And it was true. He had origami pigs, zebras, canary birds, flamingos, cats, elephants, dogs, frogs...

An hour later both Jeanine and Sherlock flopped onto the couch, exhausted. They observed their handiwork. There was a new paper chandelier hanging from the ceiling, every square inch of flat and not so flat surface was overly decorated. Even towels and kitchen cloths didn't stay untouched.

"What do you think John's going to say when he sees this?" Sherlock asked her as she chuckled.

"You're asking me to make a deduction?" she folded her arms across her chest.

"Why not? Let it be the next game we play." He turned around and threw a random piece of clothing at her.

She caught it, looked at it, held it in front of her and sniffed it. It was a ghastly purple pullover, clearly out of fashion, but had to look good on whoever wore it. She already knew whom it belonged to.

"Well, it's definitely to small for you, and from what I know you're not a doctor. This reeks of disinfectant. And judging by this pullover, he's been away when some major fashion changes happened. Oh, I forgot to mention, despite being the color of vomiting violets, this is a men's pullover. It's Johns," she let it drop to her knees: "Why were we even so competitive about origami, it's not even something I'm good at." she moaned.

Sherlock coughed and glared at her, forehead frowning in disbelief: "Than what **are **you good at?

"I don't know," she mused. She could never really admit to herself she was good at something, it was yet another consequence of her rather harsh upbringing. "Dancing, perhaps?" she finally rolled out.

"Dancing you say," he repeated making her feel even more blank. Then his attitude changed: "May I have this dance?" he bowed and raised his hand, a faint smile on his lips.

Jeanine took the dancing consulting detective's hand and he lost no time spinning her around and began humming a familiar tune. She joined in and placed her leg over his. _God, this would work do much better if I had heels._ Each of them knew the steps instinctively and his lead was becoming rather bold, attempting to sway her of her feet, but she kept pace, answering with an equally bold reply. He hated to admit it, but she was a brilliant dancer. He made a small arch for her and she did a perfect double pivot. Their tempo was getting faster and their bodies seemed to be moving of their own volition. They were staring at each other, letting the silence speak volumes between them. They breathed in unison. Sherlock lead Jeanine over the coffee table, which she casually stepped over and he tripped against. He could have eaten himself up for ruining the moment. He had danced with women before, but never with such will and purpose. He could almost say he rather enjoyed it

Jeanine was still holding him around his shoulder blades. She could tell by the way he was chewing on his bottom lip that he was ashamed for screwing the dance. Sherlock looked at her back, with the face of a guilty child, still maintaining his awkward slouching pose.

"You're not half bad a dancer," Jeanine complimented.

"The same could be said for you."

"Thanks," she was about to pull herself away when he grabbed her wrist.

"Are you coming Saturday? Can I expect your attendance?" he asked her.

"Sure thing."

John carefully opened the front door, like he was certain a bomb was behind it. To his surprise, there was no mass mayhem anywhere, only origami. Lots of origami. He could barely contain his laughter. Obviously selecting Jeanine to babysit Sherlock had been a good idea. Speaking of them, where were they? He heard voices in the kitchen and invited his new girlfriend, a tall tan blackhead inside.

"But the rules say it was homicide and not suicide." John heard Jeanine say. He immediately knew what they were talking about. _Cluedo._ She was trying to convince him the victim can't be the murderer and that it was just a game. _Good luck with that._ John picked up an origami frog, clearly amused.

John cleared his throat: "I see you two've been busy."

"Oh, hello. I think it's time for me to leave. Bye Sherlock." Jeanine took her stuff. She walked straight past the standing blackhead.

"Let me introduce you," John said politely: "This is my new girlfriend, Sally," she gave him a gentle kiss. Wearing heels she was nearly two inches taller than him.

As she stepped through the door, Jeanine sensed something strange. It was Sally. Her gut was giving her strong negative vibes against her. It was at quick glance, but her eyes gave Jeanine a message. She could see a couple of things she didn't quite foresee.

_Recognition, disgust, anger... and fear?_

**Author's Note:** I'm sorry for the very long wait. I know this was just another every day activity chapter, but I promise they're going to get better. This was so hard to write, I've been writing it for two whole weeks you know. Anyways; love, like, review!


	6. Chapter 5: Solving Cases

**Chapter 5: Solving Cases**

The hard marble-coloured linoleum squeaked beneath her leather boot clad feet as Jeanine paced restlessly across her stuffy, overcrowded room. Her flat was, in retrospect, quite beautiful. It wasn't particularly big or grand, but the building was old, built during Queen Victoria's reign, so it had a high ceiling, which gave it a lofty and airy effect, and situated in Jeanine's living room, were four pillars, inarticulately carved, placed around the circular room. She had also furnished the entire flat herself with extreme care and she was rightly proud of her accomplishments. Few interior designers could do better. Only her study remained a clammed heap of unwanted junk. In the corner by the great oval window, she had her desk and computer, complete with a few shelves giving home to various folders with bills and so on. The rest of her study was piles of boxes placed upon mountains of other stuff. One could not discern where the floor was. Jeanine kept reminding herself someday she would clean it out, but somehow she had only managed to clear a narrow path to her computer. She was definitely not going to be doing any sorting today.

What could Sherlock have meant by inviting her on Saturday. It wasn't a date, clearly that much was obvious. Jeanine had no idea what to expect. _Is he just playing a mean joke on me?_ She shook her head and paced the other way. No, Sherlock had been much to earnest for that. He had utterly confused her. A few minutes ago she received a text they were to meet in an hour and she still didn't know what meeting on a Saturday meant, if you were a sociopathic detective. She kicked a load of rubbish and waded out of her crummy study. Naturally, knowing how people behaved and what they wanted, made Jeanine have a wardrobe with an array of different styles of dresses and other garments. She looked suspiciously at a pair of classic black heels and slammed the closet door shut. No matter how much she wanted, it was not a date. Grabbing her shoulder bag, a casual jacket and keys, she fled the building to catch the tube, but not before strapping a dagger under her shirt, for safety.

Sherlock was shifting uncomfortably on his chair. He sincerely hoped Miss Green hadn't misunderstood him. Of course she was smart enough to know. Anybody who can read body language like an open book should be able to take a hint. He didn't want to seem forward, but he might in fact ask Jeanine out once, if the cards were going to be played right. Brains and beauty were a powerful combination. No disappointment met him as John led her inside. Sherlock eyed her from head to toe. Apparently she had understood him and came dressed in jeans, a plain shirt, boots and jacket. Her Green ayes gave him a piercing glare as she stood confidently, leaning on the wall with arms folded.

"I'm here Sherlock. What now?" Jeanine asked without breaking eye contact.

He cleared his throat: "I was pondering if you were to accompany us on a little trip. I'm not usually as fortunate as to have my murder victims survive the crime." he clasped his hands underneath his chin and puckered his lips, waiting for her to make a move.

"What if it wasn't murder?" she asked sickeningly sweetly.

"Oh, for God's sake," John piped in. " He's finally asking someone out. Just say yes, that's as close to an invitation as you'll get," he stormed through he door. Honestly, women were never satisfied.

Jeanine knew that. She smiled at the thought of teasing Sherlock Holmes, seeing just how far he would go. Both of them were grinning like idiots as they heard John's loud scream outside.

"Taxi!"

The three of them stepped out of the taxi and started walking. John and Sherlock had started chattering, but Jeanine wasn't listening properly, only following Sherlock's lead like a lost puppy. She had episodes like this, when she'd shut herself away and think, in an almost meditative state. John noticed her unreachable gaze. She hadn't spoken since they got into the cab, though his and Sherlock's tongues were particularly loose.

"A penny for your thoughts," he started walking backwards, facing her.

Jeanine jumped at the sound of his voice. "We're all so predictable," she muttered under her breath.

"Excuse me," John nearly tripped.

"The world is so predictable," she repeated, louder.

"How so?" his brow knitted.

"The world works based on predictability," she moved some stray locks from her eyes: "People gain trust, respect, sometimes even happiness, because of their predictability. Ours is an ever-changing world, most of us need something constant to hold on to, something that doesn't change with the seasons. It's like a life line, If all else fails, that we can still hold onto that and not fall."

John pondered her words. He had never thought about it in a light such as that. It made sense, she was right in a way, but he had never felt like that.

"And then we have Sherlock," Jeanine sighed. "Someone who's given up on predictability. It's sad he's such an outcast, just because he doesn't follow suit. Despite that we're attracted to him, you and me. We can't live with predictability, it bores us senseless. Like it or not, we need him to guide us. John we wouldn't last in predictable life. We're too unpredictable for predictability to follow us."

John spun on his heels, at a loss of words.

After a sudden turn into a dark alley, a pungent odour assailed them. The gutters were heaving and one was thankful for the complete darkness of London evenings for not having to be assailed by the sight as well as smell. This was the part of the metropolis no one speaks about and the part you never find without looking for it. John grabbed his nostrils, finding the stench overwhelming, while Sherlock rubbed his shoe on a staircase, having stepped into something unspeakable.

"How deplorable," Jeanine lifted her jacket collar, breathing in the secure smell of worn out leather. "Oi, princess, don't worry about your glass slippers now, you might step into muck again," she aimed a Sherlock who hastily swished his coat with an enraged expression. _Oh, how dramatic._

"There is nothing more humiliating," he stomped furiously: "Than walking in dirty shoes. Even slave sin the olden days would not tolerate such indignity and rather walked barefoot."

Jeanine rolled her eyes. She highly doubted that was the case, besides, he knew where he was taking them, so why didn't he choose more appropriate footwear. Each alley they traversed was in a more pitiful state than the next. Not what she'd expected she'd be doing Saturday evening, but it was strangely fun and satisfying lurking around in the dark. A few steps later Jon swore indignantly as his shoe landed in a pile of sewage vomit. He groaned aloud.

"How do you manage it?" he asked Jeanine.

"Hmmm?"

"How do you avoid stepping into vile reekage?"

Truth be told, her senses had grown so tuned she could go along the road blindfolded and not step into anything. She was trained so, only on minefields. But this time she just shrugged her shoulders. "A woman's touch, I suppose."

John laughed: "I'm used to Sherlock dragging me on his bloody escapades, but this definitely takes the cake."

"I would eat it."

"What?"

"I mean the cake." they both spluttered with laughter.

"Hurry up, we haven't got all day." Sherlock interjected as John grabbed his shoulder to support himself as he stood on one leg, cleaning the soles of his shoe.

It dawned on Jeanine, where they were going, but just to be inconspicuous she asked Sherlock: "Where are we going?"

"Tresca Cantina," the detective put matter-of-factly: "A Latino black market hideout, nasty place, doubt you've heard of it."

As a matter of fact, she knew exactly what the Cantina was. She had had dealings with its previous owner and ex-leader, El Hombre. Her involvement helped greatly to his death and to the diminishing of the Cantina's power over the years. She still deeply regretted that night and swore she would never take a job like that again.

The trio stopped in front of a worn down building with broken windows that reeked of tobacco and Sangria, along with freshly baked tortillas. The Cantina had never looked like much, but the people inside were ruthless monsters. The lights were on and judging by the roaring laughter, everybody was well drunk. Members of the Tresca Cantina were so well established, they feared no one and nothing. They were always like this; loud and imposing. They even left the front door often unlocked, as the consulting detective found out, having twisted the doorknob with a high-pitched squeak. As if by magic, the entire room fell silent. Jeanine only peeked inside from her position, but she could see they had guns at the ready. Some twenty men, all smelling of stale alcohol. Disgusting. A shot rang out. Sherlock ducked behind the door, John followed him, swearing like a maniac. Jeanine bustled herself to the other side. She needed to know, if her attacker was in there.. Immediately she grabbed for her hidden dagger. One man came outside, gun in hand. She lost no time. She vaulted over him, twisting his neck with her knees, bringing him to the ground and prying the gun out of his hand, before throwing it to John. He had been a soldier; he should know how to use it. Then she saw him. Her assailant, clear as day. She recognized him immediately for he stood out as the most pleasant looking in their entire bunch. As soon as their eyes met, he bolted with amazing agility; firing shots wildly in her direction as she his behind a crate. The former soldier retaliated with a few shots of his own.

"Come on!" Sherlock shouted. "After him!" he broke into a full sprint.

Both his companions followed, Jeanine stealing a quick glance over her shoulder to find out none of the other men were following them. Adrenalin started pumping through her veins, making her feel more alive than ever. They were in full pursuit of the Latino and had only a vague idea of where the way they were heading. In the midst of it all, Sherlock marvelled at Jeanine. She wasn't scared; she seemed to be enjoying herself. Truly an admirable woman.

Running desperately into the next alley, the Latino shot a feeble looking balcony, causing it to start tumbling down.

"Overhead!" Jeanine shouted the warning, fluently sidestepping and avoiding the debris. John and Sherlock made it out too, only Sherlock got a cut across the cheek by falling glass, but he didn't slow down. Next up, the runner climbed onto the roof of a nearby house, only to find that the two men and woman were still just behind his back. They were so persistent. He took a few steps back and leapt over the gab between two houses, onto the roof of the next, nearly loosing balance. Sherlock, John and Jeanine didn't stop. Almost simultaneously they landed on the flat roof ahead, guarded by metal railings. Jeanine's attacker was by now already on the third rooftop, aiming shots in their direction. John let out a yell of pain as a bullet grazed his arm.

"John!" she turned, but Sherlock was already by his side. The man on the other roof was preparing to take another shot, only to find out he was out of bullets, and threw the gun away.

"I'm all right, he's getting away. It's just a scratch!" he yelled back.

"John, Sherlock, go find a way around. I'm going after him." she placed her feet on the topmost rail and crouched, ready to jump.

"Are you insane!?" Sherlock tried to stop her and pull her back, but she shrugged him off.

"Just GO!" she commanded with such authority that both men scampered.

She could see the Latino climbing down the building and running away. _Not so fast._ For a second, Jeanine had doubts, she hesitated. She was letting herself go, enjoying the thrill way too much. She had swore she would never do that again, she wanted to let go of her old self, but she didn't want to let **him** go. It felt way too good. She jumped down, twisting in mid-air. Her world went slow motion, her senses were at their peak, until her feet touched the ground and she ducked into a roll. She ran like the wind, smiling. A few barrels rolled her way, but she jumped and kicked herself off the nearest wall, hoisted her body in the air, twisted and landed n front of the Latino male. _Nice to know my skills haven't left me._

They started circling each other; he pulled a knife from his pocket pouch. All things considered, he was quite attractive, if he wasn't so old and playing all macho.

"You can come quietly and no one will get hurt," Jeanine warned, not expecting it to have effect.

Full of rage, the man charged towards her, knife in hand. In a flash, she had her dagger out of her sleeve and parried what she thought was a clumsy attack. She slid her hand up to his wrist, knocking the knife out of his palm. He tried to punch her, but she spun, kicked him and made a shallow incision across his torso with her dagger. He staggered back and raised his palm to his face to see the blood. Like a bull he charged towards her, only to get his head knocked back by her elbow and fall down to his knees. He stood up, but was met with a dagger next to his heart, at the mercy of a young lady. He had never been so humiliated in his life. Then he felt his gag reflex starting. He wanted to throw up, but he couldn't. He collapsed into a pile of meat and bones, landing on the ground with a thud.

Jeanine carefully put her dagger away, wide-eyed. What happened? She was certain the cut she had made across his chest wasn't nearly deep enough to cause a collapse. She checked his pulse.

John and Sherlock watched Jeanine's leap in awe. She was good, really good. John felt his suspicions towards her rising, but when he told the detective about them, he gave him all the evidence his claim was wrong. Sherlock had also called the police. They jogged down an empty street, John still clutching his arm. The wound wasn't deep, but it bleed quite a lot and he was applying pressure to it, though blood still seemed to seep through his fingers.

"That was a tough chase," John said, breathless as they stopped running. He was exhausted.

"Wait," Sherlock turned towards him. "We still don't know its over."

John made a loud puff and winced as he removed his hand from his wound.

"You okay?" the detective was concerned.

He nodded and pointed forward: "Look, it's her."

They found Jeanine kneeling on the ground. Her head was bent, so all they saw was her back. _Please let her be okay_ both of hem pleaded silently. As they came closer, they saw the body of the Latino they were chasing. Jeanine, as if she had sensed their presence, shook her head and turned to meet their eyes. Her pained deep green eyes gave all the information they needed to know.

_Dead._

They could hear police sirens in the background.

**Author's Note:** Guess who's coming back in chapter 6! Here's a little action for those who love it.


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